Sirens
by TapesAndRecords
Summary: "War, she muses, is a horrible thing." AU multi-chap; Ziva's POV during the Second World War. Small appearance from the rest of Team Gibbs, but mainly Tiva.
1. Running for Cover

**A/N: Okay so this was my first piece of work. Like, ever. Well, not ever but you get my point. Which is why the tense is all weird, and it kinda sucks. But sitting here, with a hell of a cough and watching Just My Luck (with ickle McFly, whom I love), it seems as if anything is almost possible.**

**So this is weird, and possibly set in WW2. If you like it, it's got the possibility to be a multi-chapter fic. If you want. I'll make it Tiva for you! : )**

**Disclaimer: Hey, Man, now you're really living! So, no, I don't own it.**

She winced, tearing through her house, eyes wildly searching for the purse she had filled months ago. It was stuffed; fit to burst with any possessions she may require in the next however-long. She raised a splayed hand to one ear in a desperate yet pointless attempt to block out the noise of the wailing siren. Finding the purse- a small, rather worn out, carpet bag- she ran to the back door, stopping only momentarily in the living room as she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

She was in a thin nightdress, her normally wild hair tamed vaguely by the braid she had pulled it into the night before. Or that night, when she thought about it. It was early morning, an odd time for a raid, she thought. But she shrugged off the thought as the siren drilled through her thoughts and dragged her back to reality. Catching sight of a woolen item of clothing draped over the mantelpiece, she turned and snatched it violently.

She sighed deeply as she realised that she had forgotten something rather important. Or some things, more like. Photographs. She scooped the most important ones- about four- in her arms and wrapped them in the woolen thing. Diving out of the house, now wearing very un-fetching Wellington boots, she ran to the metal cage in her garden, dreading the mud and the puddles, but most of all, the loneliness.


	2. Musings

**A/N: Woah, I actually got a reaction to my ancient writing? It gives me an idea for another old thing to put up, but we shall see, hmm?**

**Okay, so I've changed the tense in this one and edited it so that not every sentence starts with 'she'. Man, I seriously couldn't write a few months ago. I don't even know if I can now, to be honest.**

**Disclaimer: I own this as much as I own a Grand Piano. And I don't own a Grand Piano. Wouldn't mind one, though.**

She shivers as she rests against the harsh metal at her back, ignoring the sensation of scratchy wood on her legs through her nightgown. Tilting her head against the corrugated iron, she recognizes the fact that she is entirely alone in the shelter. Nobody is there to whisper to, to confide in, to share the moment of sheer relief when they could exit. Nobody. There had been the children from the house next door, but they had been taken away to a safer place; to the countryside. There had been her neighbors, but they had visited some friends and been killed.

War, she muses, is a horrible thing. It tears out people's souls and destroys them inside. Only when they find complete solace, can they be free and safe once more. She jumps as she hears a bomb, clearly far away but still with enough impact to make the ground tremble slightly and leave a thundering _boom _ringing in her ears. She curses at herself for her reaction, but she couldn't help it. A saying forms in her head… Something about reverting back to nature and a flight or flight situation, or along those lines. She reverts back to her upbringing, her home country, her background. Hearing another bomb, she shudders, allowing a small whimper to cross her lips. Releasing an unknown breath somewhere from the depths of her lungs, she forces herself to remember. She is safe, no longer in Germany. No longer in a place where she was threatened and discriminated against for being whom she was. She couldn't help it, nobody could. She was who she was. Inside and out, she was Ziva David. A Jewish woman caught up in the middle of World War Two. A woman who isn't exactly sure if she's where she is supposed to be.


	3. Her Past

**A/N: I'll re-check this for errors tomorrow, but I just wanted to get it up first. Thanks for all the reviews on this one, by the way. You're all great, and the reason I keep this writing up!**

**Disclaimer: I keep putting off revision for this. I wouldn't do that if I owned it now, would I? Hmm? Thought not.**

She had been born and brought up in No Man's Land- the sliver of a country created due to Palestine. In the past, people had referred to it as The Holy Land, and many other things. Some said that the Messiah was born there, several thousand years ago.

She was a skilled fighter, although the men still resented her due to the fact that she was of the so-called lesser sex. Her father, however, had noticed her skill, and due to his high social status, allowed her to join the Army in her country. She fought, on the front line, and was not ashamed to say that she had killed several men. Not in cold blood, but for protection or revenge. She would only ever admit that. However, with the uprising in her country and the seemingly never-ending fighting, her father thought it best that she leave for her safety. After all, she was just a… how had he put it? A 'weak little girl'. She had slapped him and left the country by that afternoon. She ended up in Germany, hating every single moment in that hell hole. But she found herself trapped, and all too soon, she was in a country on an Anti-Jew crusade, herself caught up in the middle, innocent. Well, she thought, not so innocent since she'd killed about a dozen people, but that was beside the point. She tried and tried to escape, doing everything she could think of from flirting unashamedly to knocking out a guard or three, but nothing worked. Hitler had her trapped, and she had accidentally caught his attention.

Before she knew it, she had become a prisoner- shackled to a chair, a gag tightened around her mouth. She was salivating due to her inability to swallow, as the disgusting and definitely NOT kosher leather gag slowly became malleable. Eventually, when the guard went out for a potty break, she spat out the skin, tore her ropes apart and jumped out of the window. She ran and ran for hours and hours. She crossed borders but never slowed down. Finally, she slowed down as she crossed the English Channel, alone. She heaved the oars closer and farther away from her body, the moonlight casting pools of light that danced over the water in a mesmerizing way. Continuing to row even when her arms grew tired, she kept on going until her boat ground into the sand on a beach. Clambering out of the little wooden shell, she had stumbled sleeplessly across the grains, not noticing the person who picked her up and took her to London. She didn't notice his piercing ocean-colored eyes, his strong arms that unnecessarily carried her, or the way he stayed by her side until she stopped thrashing in her dreams and actually slept. But she was going to notice him soon.

And as she sits in the cold, dark, Anderson shelter, her legs stretching out across the muddy pool of the floor, her feet resting in a very un-ladylike manner on the unclaimed bench opposite her, she thinks. Not just about the past, but about the present and the future. Whether she'd return to being as happy as she had been before he had left. Whether she'd one day get the dreaded letter, informing her of the worst. She hopes and prays that she will never lay her eyes on such a document. Said eyes gradually became heavier and heavier as boredom and lack of sleep begin to overcome her. Her head tips forward, admitting herself to the darkness.

Suddenly, she jumps, near hitting her head on the tin roof. She grimaces as the all-clear siren rings out through the air, signalling the end of the raid. She stands up slowly, her muscles crying out after being in the same position for however long. Carefully avoiding the large puddle beneath her feet, she tiptoes to the exit. Her eyes narrow as she stepped out, attempting to no avail, to adjust to the early-morning light, which was obscured by fog. She warily walks forwards, only then allowing relief to wash over her at the realisation of surviving yet again. She almost walks into her back door, cursing the blackouts. As she enters her house again, she replaces all but one of the photographs, and decides that it would be better for her to take the purse nearer her bed. Ascending the stairs, her feet shuffling as she tries to gauge her footfall, she lightly pads into her bedroom in the darkness. Wriggling beneath the part-comfortable, part-too-thin sheets, she places the remaining photograph next to her head, and falls asleep with her finger tracing patterns around the wooden frame. 


	4. Wounded Return

**A/N: My word, people still like this? You get nicer each time, I swear. And you're so encouraging! : D**

**So this is another one, and WriterUnexpected, I hope I answered your questions. Thank you, by the way, you've reviewed each chapter, which is lovely.**

**Disclaimer: No. Of course it's not mine.**

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><p>She awakes at the sound of birdsong, and a solitary strip of flickering golden light dancing across her face. She groans slightly as her hand clutches at bedding instead of another's clothing. Her eyes open blearily, her mouth feeling thick and heavy. She tilts her head around and finds herself looking at… herself. A recent photograph of herself, and a man. The dress, the smiles, it seems a lifetime ago now. Just before the war, too. She allows her eyes to roam freely over his two-dimensional features, praying for his genuine safety. She gradually wakes up more, standing to her shaking feet. Throwing open the curtains with a little more force than necessary, her vision runs over her street, a vague smile gracing her face. She steps, still a little groggily, down the stairs, stopping at the door. She kneels down, picking up the solitary letter that had before been lying alone on the ground. She allows herself the grave to be afraid as she notes the official seal. Seeing a need to possibly stable herself upon its opening, she stumbles through to the living room and sits ungraciously down in the armchair with a <em>plop<em>. She tears at the paper folds, ripping off the top and releasing the letter in a fashion that is all-too-violent. Being patient no more, she flicks it open, cutting herself insignificantly in the process, and scans through the text. It reads:  
>'Private Anthony DiNozzo. Wounded non-fatally in action. Returning to England. '<br>She feels her whole life sag. For he is her life. He saved her, from that beach, held her, looked out for her. Then, he found her again. And that made her realize that he loved her. And he still does. He _is_ her husband, after all.

For the next couple of days, Ziva operates automatically. She wakes, she dresses, she eats, she sleeps, she drags herself to the shelter when she has to. Every time, she curses this damn war when sense arrives for a brief and maybe not welcome spell. To her, all war brings only pain, and suffering, and separation. She swears at that the most. Her entire being seems so much less important to her- he is hurt and alone, without her. He needs her, she needs him. They fit. Then, one significant morning, she walks with the feeling of an extreme burden having been removed, and lets herself breathe for the first time since she read those words. There is a certain goal in her life once more- she even smiles when something reminds her of him. She is herself once more, and she knows why.

**A/N: Care to tell me what you think, you lovely readers of this fic? I have no idea about this chapter, I think it's too much information at once and doesn't really make any sense. But my friend Ray sort of made me put this up by her approval of it.**


	5. Paralyzed

**A/N: More Sirens, hooray!**

**Disclaimer: No. Just no.**

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><p>She leaves her hair down and curly- a highly inappropriate style but she doesn't care what people think of her. Today, she is getting her Tony back. Walking down various London streets with an extra bounce in her movements, she hums a happy tune, and ignores the glares and whispers that follow in her wake. When she rounds a corner, she grins at the sight of the hospital, her smile faltering only when she lays her eyes upon the grieving people that spill out of the doors.<p>

Her heart falls to her feet as she realizes that it could have been her; she could have been in tears, feeling as if her life has no end.

_But it's not you, is it, Ziva?_

Wandering through the milling people proves to be trickier than expected, but eventually she ends up inside, stood at a desk of some significance. After a woman called Susan tells her where to go, Ziva progresses down the corridors until she finds the right place. The door swings open with ease as she gives it a shove, and a tentative foot shuffles forward. She is not deterred by the bloody sheets or the spookily empty beds; she's seen them before. Her eyes merely search for a pair of green ones that will put her at ease. She finds them- sparkling and glistening just as they were when she last saw them- and suddenly the blood is pounding in her ears and her vision is clouded and she's stepping forward without realizing it. A hand grasped hers and she gets ripped back to reality. She slumps down on the bed, her cheek a little wet from the tears that must be falling. Knowing that it would not be right at this moment, instead of kissing him, she brings his hand to her lips and brushes his palm against them. As she looks at him, she gets it.

She's paralyzed without him- she's lost her mind when he hasn't been there. But as soon as their eyes connect once more, all is well and she can live again. Because he's safe, right in front of her. And the love he is conveying to her is something she thought she would never see aimed in her direction from anyone, let alone him. So she conveys that love right back and can't hide from anything- the world might as well cease to exist. As long as he's okay, that's all that matters.

**A/N: No, no, this is not the end. I have no idea how long this will be but this is definitely not where it ends. The next chapter ****_should _****be a little more of the background of this situation (it's confusing me and I've written it for goodness' sake) and definitely more Tiva. **

**It's hard to write WW2 Tiva. Feel free to tell me how I'm doing. ; )**


	6. So Incredibly Lucky

**A/N: So I wrote more! Yay! **

**I'm not sure about this. I think it could be better, but I wanted to upload more. **

**I never anticipated how difficult it would be to write WW2-Tony. It's very difficult. I don't know how to make him funny or annoying or flirtatious whilst being 'proper' for the era, and still being Tony. So this is definitely gon' stick to being in Ziva's perspective, out of my inabilities. Sorry if you wanted more Tony! But I promise I'll write another one-shot from his point of view soon.**

**Disclaimer: Light a match under my ****paper heart**** … Whoops, light it under my dreams of owning NCIS, instead.**

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><p>She wakes up the next morning to discover another presence next to her; when she clutches her fingers around something, it's the almost-forgotten sensation of his clothes as opposed to scratching blankets. Her eyes narrow as her nose crinkles upon looking at his bandaged hand, but she guesses it is the price that must be paid for serving one's country.<p>

The blankets crease and fold over every slant and angle of their bodies and she supposes it must outline them well. After debating whether or not to wake him up, Ziva decides to leave him be- she assumes he must be shattered after the travelling and the fighting- and trail her eyes over said blanket. Somewhere along the way, however, she wonders how she got here.  
>She wonders how she ended up, not just safe, but happy, in a foreign country.<br>She wonders how she wound up in a man- this wonderful man's arms, loved unconditionally and genuinely wanted.  
>She wonders how she managed to survive when he was gone, how she kept sane and nothing resulted in her tearing her hair out at her inability to do anything.<br>All of this runs through her head as he sleeps beside her, and the past appears in short flashes.

_She wakes up in a room that is unknown and a country that is even more unknown.  
>"Oh, thank goodness, you're awake." she hears a voice say from behind her, and before she can turn to face her would-be-saviour, rustling hits her ears and a man is standing right in front of her, a grin that shines like the brightest star painted across his rather handsome face.<br>"Now, first things first, do you speak English?"_

_She nods, her throat feeling clumped- a telltale sign that it will crack if she even tries to speak.  
>"Good, we are making progress." he says, a warmth of sorts seeping through his words. "Is there anything you need?" She jerks her head in reply, pointing toward a bottle of something that is on a table near her. "Ah, yes. How impolite of me." He reaches for the bottle and she drinks the liquid until her throat seems to have gained strength. She looks into his eyes as she drinks and notes that they are of an ocean green colour, glinting in the light cast in through the window.<br>"Well, now. Introductions, I think. My name is Anthony DiNozzo," He offers a hand. "And you are?"  
>"Z-Ziva David."<br>"Hello, Ziva." he replies, snapping the end of her name in a way that makes him seem to savor it, as well as smile in a sudden wave of affection._

He shuffles next to her and suddenly she's back in the present, a ghastly grin plastered on her lips and a longing for him to wake up so that he can say her name with that little snap again.

The next morning, she wakes up earlier than him once more, the particularly long air-raid having messed up her body clock. He is snoring a little, his mouth hanging open as his face buries itself into the pillow, and she smiles upon seeing him.  
>And she feels so incredibly lucky to have him; so incredibly lucky that he is well; so incredibly lucky that she had company in the dank shelter last night for the first in a very long time.<br>She can't help but wonder if she's too lucky.

_As she lies in the room, he continues to talk to her, about England and history and movies. A lot about movies. She, personally, doesn't see the appeal in watching a man run about on a screen for a while, but each to their own, she supposes._

_She and Tony click instantly- a fact that confuses her because, on the surface, they are entire opposites. But, she realises, they have so much in common in other ways. So, without a moment's hesitation, she tells him everything.  
>She tells him of her past, her father, her missions, how she ended up on a British beach, so far away from home. She confides every part of her life to him, laying on a bed somewhere still unknown. And it's not just that he's a willing ear. He smiles at the good parts, tenses up whenever something has put her in danger, holds her hand when she needs strength to finish her sentence.<em>

_Before long, she seems better, or at least the possibly-inexperienced doctor deems her 'Okay', and she leaves the makeshift hospital, only to discover she's been in a spare room of Tony's all along. And when she realises she has no possessions except for the small bag that somehow survived the journey across the sea, he offers her some belongings he has gathered together. Then, when she notes that she has nowhere to stay, he walks her back to the spare room, a sheepish but stubborn smile on his face. _

He snores once more beside her; a loud, intrusive noise, and she looks at his new position. His limbs are splayed out in all directions, the blanket only just covering his bare chest, and his mouth is hanging open impossibly more. And she regards him, smiling at the memories that brought them to this point, and grateful for every one.

**A/N2: So how was that? This is longer than my other chapters, not only because people had been asking for longer chapters, but I also wrote this properly. The other chapters were actually one big chapter I split up and added bits to as a little attempt to see what people thought. So I wrote this one nice and long (by my standards) for y'all!**


	7. Coping

**A/N: Righto. I wrote this a couple'a days ago but I found myself being too lazy and completely shattered throughout the past few days. But, I broke up for the holidays yesterday, so no studies until after Christmas. Sadly, it's major studying for major exams. Again. I know.**

**This is definitely more of a filler chapter here. I don't want to fill you with background every chapter, so I'm going to space out the information-y stuff between some thinking and probably fluff. This is sort of fluff but a little depressing too. Ho-hum. **

**Disclaimer: It's the holiday season. Gimme a break. No? Fine. Still don't own it.**

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><p>The street next to theirs is hit about a week after his return, and she finds coping with everything just a little bit easier. It's still hard, of course- she'd known a couple of people who had been there, but his presence makes picking herself up less difficult. His words seep into her brain and she half-acknowledges that maybe it should be the other way round; he's the one inexperienced in this particular part of death, after all. But she lets herself be comforted for a day, then comforts those who don't have a Tony to do it for them. Over the period of time that there has been war, she's found herself being the one people seek refuge in- she's the strong one that her neighbors go to for advice. Yet, every strong creature has a weakness, an Achilles' heel, so to speak. So he supports her to enable her to support others, or at least that's part of it. She knows he doesn't like to see her upset anyway.<p>

Boredom used to overtake her during blackouts and air raids and simply staying indoors. But now he's back, he makes her laugh and tells her stories or relates everything he's ever known to a movie, which is so terribly him that she tolerates it. He ensures that there's always food, and rations. He willingly becomes a form of counsel; her ear- she tells him her fears and hopes and aspirations, and she's so grateful to have someone who listens to her and drinks in the situation.

When she's scared (and he can just tell), he holds her and runs a hand through her hair, whilst murmuring words of support in her ear, gently. When her hands tremble uncontrollably, he'll hold them until the shudders cease, then kiss her knuckles in a way of her knowing he's there for her; that there's no need to be scared.

And she sometimes has to reach out and touch him, as if she feels that he might dissolve and no longer be there, and skin-to-skin contact is the only way she'll see that he's back, for good, and is safe. She finds herself getting more thankful by the day that he's by her side, because she doesn't think she'll get through this war without him.

However, when she notices him gripping the back of the couch and shutting his eyes tightly as if he's trying to control himself, she realizes that she needs to be strong as well. Because though his hand is healing and shouldn't leave a scar, she knows the war has left its mark on him regardless. Shellshock, she believes it is called. So when he flashes back to death and gunfire, she places her arm on his shoulder in the hope that it will calm him somewhat. And it does, every time.

She notices that they both need to be strong, so they survive and keep on going. She might not be able to make it through the war without him, but she's unsure whether he'll get through the horror without his wife by his side.


	8. Eyes

**A/N: Wow, two chapters in one day? Somebody call me an Ambulance…**

**~"You're an Ambulance."~**

**Okay, more background here. But I still intend to space it out. I don't want to bombard people with stuff.**

**I've got a couple more drabbles to upload in _Form the Song that Leads the Way back Home _but I think I'll do that tomorrow. Too many updates confuse (s?) my little head. I also have a One-Shot I was waiting to put up, but LittleSammy (she's awesome) wrote something a little similar so I'll let that bubble down and then put mine up, yeah?**

**Disclaimer: I only own 7 boxsets of NCIS, and a poster. And a papercraft Team Gibbs. But not the rights, or the characters or any of that lovely stuff. None.**

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><p>She is daydreaming one afternoon about how lucky she is; how she ever got this, or deserved to have this. A life, happiness. The country is at war and nobody's safe or will definitely get out of this ordeal alive, but she still feels ridiculously happy. It's like their first embrace- the first moment she realized her heart was his alone. All she would ever ask for was his love and his heart, in return for hers. She knows both of them will never forget that moment.<p>

_She pretends not to notice how close she is getting to her... landlord, so to speak. She spends every day with him, as she learns more English customs and he corrects her idiom mistakes, and she knows she can thank only him for the fact she's made it two months in England and stayed safe and well. They make a point of being in each other's company each night, sitting on his couch. Talking. And she relishes each moment because they not only get longer, but he begins to look at her with a look in his eyes that she's not sure she's ever seen aimed in her direction._

_She trails off her discussion about the English language when the newfound glint is in his gaze and she finds herself trying especially hard to breathe. They're sitting casually; his arm is across the breadth of the leather and she is turned in to look at him, her knee pulled up with her feet resting on the cushions._  
><em>"Ziva..." he says, and the way his voice cracks so his word is merely a whisper, makes her exhale shakily through a controlled gap in her lips, and a shudder runs down her back so that she physically jumps. He tilts his head, an expression of intrigue written on his face, and her heart jumps to her throat when he reaches out and brushes the back of his hand along her cheek.<em>

_She knows that he has picked up on the fact that tears of a known uncertainty are tainting her eyes, but as she glances down to his palm and returns her gaze to his line of vision, she doesn't care. She gulps air down her throat in a desperate attempt at controlling her actions, but everything seems to function of its own accord and before she knows it, she's placed her hand on top of his in a bold action. However, he doesn't seem overly shocked, and he just blinks before he moves his head in the opposite direction to the one it was in. He pulls her close in a tight embrace, and she returns the gesture, clutching at his clothing and wishing something more could happen._

_He pulls away and the heat that has been emanating from him, onto her, suddenly dissipates into the air in a way that fills her with sorrow. Questions swim in his eyeline and she knows what he's asking. So she answers, and leans forward in a way of closing the gap between them. Kissing him gently, she does not sleep alone that night; he tiredly walks her to his bed and they collapse partially under the sheets._

Her reverie is broken when he places a hand on her shoulder, and she lays her palm on top of it, a little like she did in the past- at that moment. And as she turns round and kisses him, she's as ecstatically happy at this moment as she was then.

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><p><strong>Recap: She's staying in his spare room after sailing across from France, and she's gotten closer to him. At this point, she's just staying in his bed with him, if that makes sense. And when I say 'collapse', that's out of tiredness not any other reason, yeah?<strong>

**Note: Review! Tell your friends! Invite your relatives! Half price Pizzas for all! **


	9. Childlike

**A/N: This might be my last update before Christmas. I've got a few unpublished things, but I'm not sure whether I should upload them or not, they're a bit… AU. **

**Aha. I know I said that I would split the background stuff up, but this is all I could write. I tried to write a chapter to put in between the last one and this, but I really couldn't create anything that seemed to fit. So this is background stuff. Just pretend it's all in **_**italics**_**, yeah?**

**Disclaimer: Myeh. I've asked for a lot of things for Christmas. Apparently, Trading Yesterday's album and the ownership of NCIS have been a little difficult for Santa to get.**

_**WriterUnexpected, since you've reviewed every chapter and your last one was so lovely –seriously, I got lots of Story Alerts and no reviews until you came along so I thank you- I dedicate this chapter to you. Thank You!**_

She wakes up with the beams of light shining right into her eyes and winces, rolling round to stop the sunlight from blinding her completely. It is only after she has buried her face in a pillow, that she realizes it's not her bed that she is lying in. When she peels one eye open, only then does she acknowledge the presence beside her. Tony. A quiet curse escapes under her breath, and her cheeks burn a fierce shade of red as she remembers that it isn't appropriate to swear in this country. With a sigh, she gazes at the man lying next to her, taking in this new situation with a gulp.

She looks over his face, admiring his mouth and closed eyes, intrigued by the youth emanating from his features, in awe of the attraction he gives off. Without realizing it, she reaches out and touches his cheek, running her index finger along the skin in a way that gives her shivers. She quickly draws her hand back and hisses in a breath, hoping she has not woken him. He only shuffles a little closer to her- though she doesn't think it's intentional- and opens and closes his mouth, making a content noise. A smile spreads out across her face at his childlike behavior, and she moves a little forward. Again, her movement doesn't wake him, so she scoots toward him once more, then curls up against his chest and wraps an arm round his waist, hoping he won't mind but sincerely doubting it anyway. The light continues to spread across the room, but she sleeps some more, so close to him that some would consider it inappropriate. Ziva, however, definitely doesn't.

When she next wakes, he is gone, and a little part of her sinks inside. However, that piece soon rises as she hears humming taking place in the direction of the kitchen. Dragging herself up out of bed, the soft sheets are instantly replaced with tepid air, but she doesn't mind and lightly pads to where he is. Standing in the doorway, she smiles in amusement upon seeing him so dedicated to a cause, so for a moment or two, she's content with simply watching him at work. After a while, though, she thinks it best to make herself known, rather than frighten him when he eventually does notice her.  
>"Ahem." she says, clearing her throat as loudly as she can manage. He looks up immediately from the hot pan he had been seasoning, and a smile creeps onto his face.<br>"I'm sorry," she says, in spite of the blush appearing in her cheeks. "I did not mean to pry."  
>"No no no, Ziva. You weren't prying," a small laugh of disbelief creeps into his words, and he leaves the food to walk over to her, and he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as he continues. "You're never doing anything like that here, okay?" his eyes roam over hers as she dodges his gaze, but he moves his head purposefully to be in her line of vision. She looks into his eyes eventually, and a coy smile creeps onto her lips.<br>"Okay, Tony." she says. A grin, entirely opposite to her's in comparison, erupts all over his face.  
>"Good." he continues, with an air of finality about his words, and she gets that the conversation is over. However, apparently not before he places his lips to her forehead, both their eyes fluttering shut. He moves away and her eyes delay a second before re-opening.<br>"Hope you're hungry!" the childlike part of him has returned, but she thinks she's okay with that. So long as she can stay with him again tonight.

**A/N: Please review, seriously. I'm not gonna do that thing of '5 reviews for the next chapter' because I've always found that a little strange, but please. It's a little upsetting to get so many hits and barely any reviews. Grovel over.**


	10. Remembered

**A/N: I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm-**

**More Sirens. I don't count this as entirely background, but I must confess I'm struggling a little with this. I have no idea where it's going. I could kill someone off, or end the war, or put them both in even more danger. Truth is, I never had a plan for this thing, I just sort of wrote it. So please, please, tell me what you'd like to happen or what direction you think this should go in. Even a vague estimate in length could be a help.**

**Disclaimer: *Gibbs slap* Yes, boss. Sorry, boss. On your six, boss.**

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><p>Something about the bombs that seem to be falling consistently, still has the ability to make her jump and force her heart to momentarily fall and collide with her rising stomach. She automatically turns her head to face her husband's, silently wincing at the crick that occurs in her neck.<p>

He reaches his hand out and places it on top of hers, offering her a weak yet comforting smile in the process. And she feels a little better. A little. Because the bombs remind her of a war-filled childhood, marred with death and bloodshed. Something that, no matter how hard he will try, she knows he'll never fully understand. So all he can do is hold her hand and smile. But she's still grateful for that.

He still blanks out every now and then, and she finds he has to be snapped out of his reverie once in a while, in an attempt to stop his knuckles from turning pure white. He insists on gripping onto the nearest inanimate object every time a memory hits him. And then, she thinks he might understand how she feels, a little better.

The wailing sirens continue and the bombs insist on falling, and the noise won't stop. Even in the shelter, the screaming is muffled and the explosions aren't too bad, but the harsh, rough, breathing fills her head until she slips into hell. Because she's remembering. Not just reminiscing, full-blown memories are hitting her from all directions. Her years of repressing them have taken their toll, and even he can't stop the visions.

And she's crying and clutching at the sand as they force her to the floor and try to stop her from reaching her sister's remains. Family. Her family has just been charred and killed and she gets dirt pushed under her nails in her desperate attempts to reach them. To join them, even. Tears fall despite her best effort, and they mix with the sand, to adhere to her face and gum together. And she just feels sick. Because, it seems that there is no solace; no closure will ever enter her lonely little world.  
>And her face is set in a steely gaze as she lowers the weapon and looks upon the face of her once-beloved brother, bleeding out into the dust, with remorse and regret and sorrow in her eyes. Because, it seems she's the one who has to pick up the pieces; she's the constantly strong one. If her defenses crumble, just for one second, everything else falls too.<br>She doesn't know what feels more empty. The screaming and the dirt or the bleeding and the look of stone. The sheer emptiness is impossible to comprehend, it just doesn't fit. When one is raised in a world of blood, how can blood be the thing to reduce one to nothing?  
>This is what she has become. Empty.<p>

She doesn't know he's trying to do everything he can to get her back to reality. She doesn't know he's scared out of his mind because he has no idea what to do. She doesn't know the panic that keeps rising through him the longer she stays out of it. And she doesn't know that he understands exactly what she's going through. Because he's remembered, too.

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><p><strong>AN2: Angst, angst!**

**You see that little review button down there? It gets rather lonely at times…**


	11. Fighting Corners

**A/N: First of all, I am so so so sorry, yet again, for not uploading. Not just this, I haven't uploaded anything. Time has just been slipping from my grasp the past week. I went back to school after winter break, I've been bombarded with homework, and I've spent every spare moment either writing or being with my family (particularly my sister who goes back to University in two weeks so I've been trying to be with her before she leaves). **

**So I managed to write this, and I suddenly have enough time to upload it. I don't know what anyone thinks, etc, but JSYK, the first block is set straight after the angst!thing I did last chapter, and then the second block whooshes back to before that. And I'm seriously hoping it's appropriate for the time.**

**Disclaimer: I borrowed them for this. Afterwards, we went out to a club and they all got drunk. Guess who had to drive them home? Yup, me. (I can't even drive, but hey.)**

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><p>"Are you alright?" he asks the next day, and the tone of his voice indicates that he's seriously concerned.<br>"I am fine." is her reply, and she shrugs a shoulder, scrunching up her nose whist narrowing her eyes to emphasize the point. She takes a step to walk away and he stops her, grabbing hold of her arm in a firm gesture.  
>"Tony. I said I am fine." she draws the words out as if pausing for breath after each one, and tenses her arm to indicate him to let go.<p>

"Except you're not okay, are you, Ziva? It's happening again, isn't it?" he still hasn't let go yet. She bows her head in acknowledgement and he relaxes his grip on her. Lifting a hand to tilt her chin, he breathes out loudly, and she can't help but wonder if there's defeat in his sigh.

"Ziva, look at me," he says, and she does, faintly recognizing that that's the first thing he's said so far that hasn't been a question.  
>"What, Tony? You can't make them stop, you do not even know what they are like!"<p>

The words fly out before she realizes, and she's reminded of the time right before he left for war, when they fought like this. She reverted back to her training and turned defensive. He went back to his stubborn ways, like she assumed he was before the war, and made sarcastic jokes that had genuine insults. Because they're both stubborn and pig-headed, so they both fight their own corner.  
>She hopes this conversation will not descend into the chaos of their previous arguments.<p>

"Now, Ziva. You of all people know that's not true. In more ways than one. You've forgotten, haven't you? I made them go away last time, didn't I? What's stopping me doing the same thing?"  
>His speech has an impact on her, and she rocks on the spot a little as she processes what he's said. Because he did make them go away, he's quite right. And he's most likely the only person who can make them disappear again.<p>

He's moved her, by now. He's still leaning against the edge of the counter, but she's now stood directly in front of him, her , on which her hands rest on top of. He continually tucks one disobedient strand of hair behind her ear, gently brushing the back of his hand against her cheek at the same time. Smiling at her weakly, he moves his hand to cup one side of her face, then brings his other up too.  
>"We're going to get them, okay?"<br>"I don't think I can take anymore." she feels ashamed at her defeated tone, even though part of her idly wonders when she first used a contraction, but nods her head in spite of it all.

Because he gets the monsters. He defends her, saves her, fights for her. And yes, they fight their own corners, but fight each other's, too.

...

The first time she wakes up, and sheets are the only barrier between herself and the air, panic rises through her. She calms, though, as she feels his eyes on her, and turns her head to meet his gaze, then speaks.  
>"Good morning."<br>"Morning. I love you."  
>"I love you, too."<p>

She knows she'll never tire of hearing him say those words, but does think others might find it overly romantic, and makes the internal decision to keep it a private token of affection.

They'd said it to each other, last night, both of them equally anxious and just a little scared. But they grinned and he kissed her, and then... Well, enough said.

He gets up and partially dresses to make breakfast, but she finds being without him terribly lonely, and pulls on a robe before walking through to the kitchen. Wrapping her arms round him from behind- and that makes him yelp then burst out laughing- she leans her head against the breadth of his back and just relishes both the feeling, and the ability to do that.  
>"Listen, honey, I've got to move." he says as he attempts to wriggle free, and she laughs then steps backward to allow him to make the food.<p>

They don't do anything that day. They just lounge around and talk and eat and doze. And as they go to bed late at night, she realizes that this is the first day she hasn't been dragged back to her homeland; hasn't been forced to remember her ordeals back there. He kept her anchored all day, and nobody's ever done that before. It's then that she realizes she can't be with anybody else.

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><p><strong>Note: Sorry if there are any mistakes, I feel really sleepy right now so I probably haven't checked it that well. <strong>

**Still have no idea where this is going, any suggestions would be appreciated. Either say it in the review or PM me, I don't mind. (:**


	12. Tick Tick Boom

**A/N: Honey, I'm home!**

**Alright, here's another chapter for y'all. This is the first one in a while that I actually like. Especially the second segment. Can you tell I went to the beach yesterday? ;)**

**And I just want to say Thank You to every single one of you, whether you're one of the lovely people following this fic or one of the equally lovely people who review it. I don't think I say that enough.**

**Disclaimer: Francisco… Fraaancisscooo… Frahncisssco.**

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><p>The bombs are loud, much louder than they've ever been before. She gets up, her eyes heavy, and hears him yell her name. A small squeal escapes her as she stumbles down the stairs, and she reaches out her hand, blindly searching for him. The house is falling down around her but she doesn't know it.<p>

She hits her foot on something and screams his name, quietly. He doesn't respond, though, and her heart stops along with her feet. She calls him, louder this time, and he says her name. The tone of his voice, however, suggests he doesn't know where she is and probably didn't even hear him. Her arm scrapes against something she swears wasn't there before, but she shuffles on regardless.

Her feet are suddenly standing on moist soil, but when she moves forward she finds a large chunk of stone blocking her path. He's calling her again but she doesn't know where he is. Then, and only then, she realizes the cold air should have only just hit her. But it didn't, it hit her about three minutes ago, when she hit her foot. She was still inside when it did. Which only means one thing. The house has been hit but the bomb hasn't exploded yet.

Her nails feverishly drag across the concrete slab in front of her and she hears him scream this time. Her name mixes itself with a strangled cry, and she knows he's torn between staying with her or keeping alive. So she calls out to him, to go, with all she's got. And she hears a sob then heavy footfall and thinks he must have been nearer than she'd thought.

But he's gone now and she has to work out how to escape. Her attempts cease, though, when another chunk of rubble falls and pins her to the dusty ground. It hurts. And then, amidst the screams and the cries and the loud noises, she holds her breath as she hears a muffled sound.  
>Tick. Tick. Tick. .<br>Boom.

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><p>The concrete turns to pebbles, and the pebbles turn to sand, and the sand turns to- nothing; everything. The surprisingly warm air contrasts with the icy cold grains against her skin as the vague breeze swirls her dress round her ankles. Insistent ripples are protruding from the ground in seemingly formidable shapes, but she finds them crumbling beneath the balls of her feet. Her toes squelch as the khaki earth turns to deep brown slush; the tide's been here recently.<p>

She just keeps walking, the lack of sleep not fazing her even as the sun rises a little more and stains the sky a baby blue. Only when the water is seeping underneath her feet and cooling her down even more, does she stop. She likes this beach.  
>It's long and straight and seemingly endless. The sand pales to a ghostly white when you put pressure on it. Footprints are tiny and unidentifiable. You can be who you want and change what you desire.<br>The waves continually ebb and flow and never stop. There's only one constant noise of the sea, never loud or violent or separated. The tide is always so far away it feels like you're in a different world when you do reach it. You can be who you want and change what you desire.  
>It's never too hot or too cold and you can alter that however you please. Nobody goes out that far and never that early. The shadow on the horizon looks just that little bit impossible. You can be who you want and change what you desire.<p>

He finds her not ten minutes later, and she hears him meters away. His feet line up with hers, the perfect distance from the tide to catch the dregs of an extra-long wave. She hears him sigh deeply yet contentedly as he hooks her hand in his, and she half wonders what the matter is. Then, he does nothing for a while. Just stands there next to her, looking out across the sea during which time his thumb begins to sway and brush against her knuckle. Eventually, he speaks. Just four little words. She doesn't turn to face him and he still just stares out at the horizon. But she doesn't think she's ever known anything so small to stun her so much.  
>"Will you marry me?"<br>She hesitates only momentarily as she realizes she has no reason whatsoever to refuse. So she accepts, never having been so sure of herself in all her life.

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><p>Just like that, the memory's gone. And fearful, blank, nothingness replaces it.<p>

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><p><strong>AN: If you press that review button, all your dreams will come true! Maybe.**


	13. Black

**A/N: And another Sunday upload! Sorry, y'all. I was going to upload on Wednesday but this week has turned into the worst one for years. Two major exams, a cold that turned flu-ish, resulting in my having Thursday off school, the cat having three days at the Vets, my sister going back to University, and me being completely lacking in inspiration. **

**But, I got ideas this morning. *hooray* It's short again, but this whole fic has never been that long…**

**Disclaimer: I've got a secret. Lean closer, yeah? Bit further. Bit further… *looks round* **_**I don't own NCIS…**_

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><p>Black. That's all there is. Just dull, empty, black. It's unlike anything else she's ever experienced before. This time, she's unsure whether or not she'll wake up again.<p>

She hopes he's safe. She told him to run; to save himself. He better have done, or else she'll make his life miserable, dead or not. She just wishes they had had more time. Damn this war.

She still manages to feel pain in this limbo-like-state, and she's particularly aware of the heavy, crushing weight at her hip. Dismissing it, along with every other pain ache she can feel whilst in this dim purgatory, she internally grits her teeth and rests.

Eventually, though, she grows tired of pacing round her head, and wishes something would happen. Death or resuscitation, she doesn't care. Just anything to get her out of whatever this lonely place is. Again, she hopes he's safe.

And then, the crushing pain at her waist suddenly disintegrates, and a solid, cushioned, block finds its way behind her back. A hand slides into hers and she thinks she manages a squeeze in return. Sure, she's not awake, but it's a start.

**000000**

He constantly holds her hand in the hospital. It's crowded, and noisy, and he'd much rather be at home, but a German bomber saw that any hope of that turned to dust, in every sense of the matter.

He made it to the shelter, against all better judgment, but sitting in it whilst knowing she was out there, it hurt him. Painfully. The moment the all-clear rang out, he was scrambling through the rubble like a man possessed, desperate to find her. And he did. Surrounded by debris, clearly unconscious, obviously bleeding from her temple, but completely Ziva. And alive.

A rescue group came round- a makeshift emergency patrol that were moving from wreck to wreck to assess the varying situations. They discovered him, close to tears, covered in grazes and cuts, but persevering relentlessly. And they help.  
>The stronger members remove offending chunks of concrete, whilst the more medically-suited check the woman's vitals and see she's okay. Once everything seems to be under control, they lift her up and place her on a blanket. That then morphs into a stiff cushion that vaguely resembles a gurney of sorts, and she soon ends up transported to a hospital.<br>Any injuries he may have, are completely dismissed.

**000000**

She knows where she is. She knows it can't be good. She knows there's a war on. She knows she's in a lot of pain.  
>She knows who she is. She knows she has a reason to be worried. She knows she has to wake up.<br>She knows she needs to be with someone else; someone important.

Except she can't, for the life of her, remember who that other person is.

She needs to wake up.

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><p><strong>AN: :O Tony perspective? I know, treasure it, I doubt he'll turn up again. But since Ziva's unconscious I thought it was necessary.  
>Oh, and if you guys hate this whole memory-loss thing, I can change it. Sorry if it sucks.<strong>


	14. Memory

**A/N: Still here! *waves***

**A'right, it's another short chapter. My most sincere apologies, guys. Anyways, I gots a plan for this fic now! It's gonna be 18 chapters, the last of which being a prologue. And sorry, there's another chapter of amnesia to come after this. Don't eat me- I promise it ends after that.**

**Disclaimer: "Knock Knock." "Who's there?" "Me, not owning NCIS." "Dude, you don't get this."**

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><p>She wakes up with a jolt, sitting upright in a dizzying way. Immediately, a nurse rushes to her side but doesn't do much to help. Writhing in agony, she finds almost everything hurts. Pain; sharp, stabbing pains, piercing each and every part of her body. Her legs feel tight and bound, her head is pounding, and the only thing she can see is a focused point of extreme white.<p>

She takes deep breaths, causing her world to cease its incessant spinning but do little else, and falls back onto the creaking bed with a _thud_. Sleep overcomes her immediately, and she doesn't see the worried man standing heroic guard by her side.

He'll wait and fret and wonder as her eyes flit back and forth in a fast-paced dream. He'll sit and worry and think as her hands ball up into fists and unclench again. He'll sleep and wake and panic continuously as her head lulls to the left and the right in her restless sleep.  
>She doesn't notice him.<p>

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><p>Waking up for a lengthier time the next day, she is relieved to discover her sight has returned to normal. The world is still, and colored, and occupied by a sleeping man to her left.<p>

Frowning upon seeing him, she wonders if she knows this man. She wonders if she knows herself.  
>She has no clue how she got here. Her mind has been wiped clean, like a slate would be to remove writing.<br>She knows her name is Ziva David, a fact she assumes is good, but that is about all. Her heritage, her family. There's nothing. It's as clean as fresh snow, yet to be tainted by dirt and people.  
>And she doesn't know <em>him<em>.

He's sitting on an uncomfortable-looking chair, lying forward with his upper body resting on the bed His eyes are tightly shut, a look of pain etched across his face, and his arms are splayed roughly over the sheet. His hands have gathered the linen within them, clutching at it like a lifeline. Erratic breaths emanate from him with no real pattern, and an occasional haunted moan escapes his lips.  
>He's not asleep.<p>

Not knowing what to do, she catches the attention of a nurse. The young woman instantly tries to assist, but she points to the man and understanding flashes through her eyes. The girl pulls him up from his shoulders and holds him down in a seated position, dismissing the fact he drags a bedsheet with him. Ziva feels something stir within her stomach, and she comprehends it to be jealousy.

The man's head is rolling round, eyes still trapped shut, but the nurse is managing to calm his breathing down. Eventually, he stops moving altogether and relaxes, apart from his hands still gripping material. Water is poured down his throat, and he opens his eyes at the sensation.

Something makes her breath hitch in her throat when he locks his gaze with hers, and she realizes he's definitely important.

He smiles at her, weakly yet breathlessly, and she just knows she's an idiot for forgetting him. Sure, she doesn't know his name, or know quite what he means to her, or understand any of this situation, but she does know one thing.  
>She loves him.<p>

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><p><strong>AN: Those of you who are confused, Tony was having a panic attack. _MY BABY! _  
>I got the idea from another fic I read. Sadly, I can't remember what it was or who wrote it. If it's similar to yours, sorry for stealing part of your idea. I emphasize this point in case you get mad. Whoever 'you' are (is?).<strong>


	15. War's still Raging

**I'm back! :D  
><strong>**Alright, not sure on this.**

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><p>He stays with her for the two weeks that the hospital is the place she calls home. She assumes he only leaves her side when she's sleeping.<br>He doesn't; he's got nowhere to go.

Gradually, she gets her memory back. None of it has actually returned, but he tells her the important details that she needs. Getting to grips with the war is the most difficult thing.

To have to re-gain everything about the fighting is something that drains her.  
>Not the history, she's fine with that, but the reality. The fact that people are dying, that she almost died, all because of honor and dignity from a country. Knowing that Tony; that her own husband, was injured in the chaos, makes bile rise in her throat, because none of it seems worth it.<br>When he tells her of her past, she really is sick, because she was a fighter too.

She's so very grateful for his presence. Not just because he helps her recall everything, but because he helps her through. He picks her up when she falls down, he waits for her when she hesitates. He just loves her, far more than she deserves.  
>She desperately wants to remember what she did to make him stay with her in the first place.<p>

It's only on the day before she's due to leave that she wonders where they're going to go. He's never mentioned what happened to their house after the bombing.

But when she asks him, he gulps and his ears turn read, and she wonders what he's neglected to tell her.  
>"There's nowhere to go, Ziva. The house is just rubble."<br>And that feels like a punch in the stomach.

They get a ride to the coast, and she sleeps the whole way. When he jolts her awake announcing their arrival, she sees a little white cottage, and something in the back of her head twists upon viewing it. She thinks she knows it somehow.

When she carries the bags up to their room, her eyes catch the sight from her window. An endless, stretching beach, with calm waves and empty sands. And there's another twist in her mind.

She bolts down the stairs and ignores Tony's shouts. Her bare feet scrape against the concrete until they are relieved by sand. She halts right by the water, smiling as it seeps beneath her toes. When she feels his hand slip into hers, there's not just a twist. There's a click.

Pictures flash before her eyes, at lightning speed, one after the other after the other. The memories just keep coming, until she lets out a small laugh of incredulity, and her knees give way.  
>She collapses onto the soft grains, mesmerized by the recollections, still smiling slightly. And when she turns her head to look at him, he's smiling too.<p>

Because she's remembered. And the war might still be raging, but she's safe and loved and that will do for now.

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><p><strong>We've got 16, 17, and the Prologue to go! Home straight!<br>****Thoughts are ever-welcome. Feel free to check out my other stuff too. I promise, it's probably better than this. (;**


	16. Charred

**Back again! (:**

**I quite like this one.**

**Disclaimer: She did it.**

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><p>Her head is clear once more, memories safely restored to their former glory and all of her husband's worries dissipating in the fresh, sea air.<p>

And whilst there's the constant feeling of being out-of-place, she's pleased to discover the reason for moving to London in the first place, lingers no more. For the first time in a long time, she finds herself healing.

The whispers had become too loud; the rumors too well-known. Right after their getting married, she had finally snapped, no longer able to withstand the snide remarks that followed them both around.  
>And so, they had moved. Moved to London; to the city; to a place where nobody knew them and nobody could judge.<p>

They had kind neighbors, not ones who glared at her and spoke under their breath.  
>They had understanding acquaintances, not ones with ulterior motives and hidden agendas.<br>Who knew living in an unsuspecting town was so difficult?

But people are surprisingly kind now, and they both agree it's best to stay there.

A month or two after returning, however, they discover a need to go back to London, fleetingly as their visit will be.  
>So they go, to find their possessions, meager and charred as they will be.<p>

When she sees the remains of what was once her home, a choked sob escapes her. Because this isn't home.  
>This is burnt and crumbling, without structure or walls.<br>This is crushed and peeling, with falling fixtures and a lack of vital parts.  
>This is empty and smoking, without spirit or homely qualities.<br>This is not home.  
>This is hell.<p>

Because even in this twisted world, where friends fight friends and violence is the key to triumph, there can be another type of hell.  
>Even in the time when there are whispers of Hitler's defeat, and Britain have the upper hand, it is possible for three to be another type of hell.<p>

And she's looking at it.

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><p><strong>Ta-daah. Please review.<strong>


	17. Alive

**Hello. (:  
>So, final proper chapter here. Thanks for the reviews, etc., and all the lovely silent people who have this on alert.<br>****I will make sure to upload the epilogue in, like, 5 minutes. ;)**

**And guess who the 'neighbor' and his 'friends' are.**

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed.**

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><p>He smiles at her, and she laughs.<br>She can't help it.

Their kind neighbor raises his eyebrow but says nothing, continuing his story. The man's weathered hands make graceful arcs through the air, his ice-blue eyes glinting with the memories.

The two of them have become rather good friends with this admirable man. He served in the Great War, something she knows Tony idolizes, and other wars before that; his history is muddled and confusing but very courageous, and he often regales them with a tale or two over lunch.

The man is old, with silvery hair and crinkling eyes, but he's as sharp as a knife and quick-witted, and she particularly likes how he isn't afraid to put her husband in his place.

In return, she graces his friends and him with some of her own stories. Stories of Israel, of being in London, of the horror when Tony was away.

And she finds the wounds aren't quite so open anymore, when she talks to these people, with their smiling faces and open arms. She wonders if this is what it's like to have a family.

**000000**

He smiles at her, and she laughs.  
>She can't help it.<p>

The woman behind the counter smiles knowingly but does not enquire, merely hands over the brown paper bag and accepts the change.

The two of them have integrated themselves within the village, helping out when required and comforting those who need it. It was Tony's suggestion, actually. When they had lived here before, they kept a low profile. After all, Ziva was foreign and Tony looked down on, so they decided to keep to themselves.

Now, however, most everyone knows them. Fair enough, the village is small and word travels fast, but it still feels like an accomplishment. They are acknowledged and appreciated, and she likes that.

Her new friends never cease to keep them amused, with games and picnics; evenings and dances. And she makes sure to attend every single thing. Not just to keep herself occupied, but because she genuinely wants to. And when they are laughing and singing together, something stirs within her. She wonders if this is what it's like to have a family.

**000000**

He smiles at her, and she laughs.  
>She can't help it.<p>

The sea makes no response, simply seeps further forward and ebbs back again in its silent career.

The two of them are standing on the beach, hands interlocked and eyes on the horizon, like they've done so many times before.

She got engaged here.  
>She got her memory back here.<br>And now, she feels alive here.

Because the country is free and the war is over; the winners and the losers must act how they dare.  
>But the politics don't make her feel alive.<p>

Because the world has finally accepted her, and the war is over; the winners and the losers must act how they dare.  
>But the world doesn't make her feel alive.<p>

Because she's got a family, and the war is over; the winners and the losers must act how they dare.  
>And as she lays a hand on her stomach, the skin only slightly raised but it will grow more, she just knows.<p>

She's alive.


	18. Epilogue

Epilogue

·:|:·

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><p>Two children run through the garden, small hands trailing over the tips of long grass. Their feet dance lightly over the path as they laugh their way to the beach, stones digging into their souls but paying no attention.<p>

She runs after them, shouting their names to get them to slow down, and a laugh bubbles over her when she feels the cool sand beneath her toes.

He sidles up to her, slipping his hand in hers, and they run after their offspring like children themselves, the wind rushing past them.

She tackles her daughter, and he floors their son, all of them crashing to the grained floor with a chaotic splash as the water erupts beneath them.

They giggle when she tickles them, rolling in the inch of water and attempting to escape her grasp. She allows them no such reprieve and attacks them with her fingers until all her energy runs dry.

Their eyes catch above their children's heads, and the understanding expression clears something inside her.

Later, they lie on beach towels, the familiar sensation of the sun swamping them. Their children are snoozing, blissfully unaware of another life; a different world where the sand is gunfire and the sea is man.

But she knows of such a world, and has no desire to visit it again.

All that matters is now- her family, her friends, her life. And that's good enough for her.

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><p><strong>And I'm done! Wow, I'm a little emotional. :')<br>Thank you to everyone who's reviewed this, including regulars and occasional reviewers, and my anonymous, silent alerters, because your muted support is very much welcomed.**

******Reviews would (still) be lovely. **


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